


Denotation Determinism

by Uniasus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demon Summoning, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23799679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: The name by which you're summoned can tell you a lot about what to expect, from a fellow demon throwing you under the bus to human desperation.Three times Crowley finds himself at a human's mercy.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Denotation Determinism

_1973_

He can already tell this is his least favorite summoning type. He feels it in the way his feet form, or perhaps in the way they don’t. The summoning shapes the demon, and being instructed to not change shape can be as telling as being told to.

As it is, this form isn't in spellbooks. Isn't whispered from human ear to human ear. It's a result of intervention by his fellow demons, and there's no good reason why a demon would do that. Get summoned in your primary form, and the reason is usually because someone else wants to see you suffer or they're trading their suffering for yours.

He doesn't know where he's going, only that he's pulled through the Earth to a place he'd rather not be.

The cement above him cracks as he rises, dirt falling off his shoulders and elbows. He steps out of the hole in the ground, shakes his shoes, straightens his jacket. Runs a hand through his red hair. Solidifies his form into Anthony J. Crowley, the one determined by his name painted on the cement floor.

It's only once he's fully there does Crowley take a look. Pretending to polish his shoes on the back of his pants, he notices the neat, tidy symbols of the summoning circle. Someone patient. Someone careful.

He notices the dark spots on the floor just beyond his circle, blood from the last summoning. He's with someone smart, knowing not to contaminate summoning circles.

Crowley shifts the sunglasses on his face, noting the lack of windows. The space is lit by a faint, single blub near the end of a set of stairs some three hundred meters away and a few scattered candles around the circle. Somewhere secret, someone prepared. Probably a basement.

Finally, he turns and sees who has summoned him.

It's a woman, hair that might be light brown, might be dirty blonde, held back by a thin headscarf. She's wearing a business pantsuit, robins-egg blue. She holds a candle burning in a coffee mug, melted wax congealing on ceramic instead of her fingers.

She smiles at him. "Hello, Crowley."

There is no difference in the summoning, in the symbols that call him and in the symbols that shape him between Crowley and Crawly. But it's a clue to how she got his name, _where_ she got his name, and what's to come.

Very few demons call him Crawly, but those who do have the power and clout to remind him of his own powerless nature. Those who call him Crowley are peers or lesser demons. Less power, less age, less knowledge.

It means, whatever this woman wants, she couldn't get from another demon. That a demon, desperate and in pain, eager to please her, gave up the name of someone who could answer her wishes. It means, most likely, he will only leave here covered in blood. 

Well, no point drawing it out.

"What do you want?" Crowley asks, whipping his chain length hair back.

"I've heard the devil is looking for souls."

"Is that what you want? To sell your soul?"

"It's what I'm offering."

Crowley looked at her, _through her_. "No deal."

"And why not?"

"Satan's already getting your soul, lady."

The woman frowns for a second, before shrugging and her sadness melts away. Crowley already knew she was smart, she probably guessed the pearly gates weren't for her. He hadn't pegged her as manipulative.

One day, she might make a good imp.

"What do you actually want, Kathleen Sanders?"

He doesn't expect her to grin at his revel of her name. Crowley begins to think he might have made a mistake.

"Power, of course. I don't want to be an assistant for the rest of my life. I want to run a company, and not just any company. I want to take the one my misogynistic boss runs away from him."

"And you want my help."

Kathleen's lips flatten and Crowley suspects it's not so much that she wants his help but that she needs it. Times are changing, but the world wouldn't be welcoming to independent women for a while yet.

In Kathleen's silence, Crowley roves the circle he was summoned into, reading the marks. A barrier, to keep him in. Protection, so he couldn't outright hurt her. There's a compulsion, but it's mild. Incomplete. Deals can only be made if both parties are willing, so she can't force Crowley into one.

Doesn't mean she can't do other things. Doesn't mean she hadn't.

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley's eyes track to the demon blood ten feet away.

A deal it was, then. Best to not let her finish the compulsion piece.

"What do you want my help with? Surely, a smart woman like you has a plan." He tries to terrify her, flick out his now forked tongue. Call black scales to his cheekbones. She doesn't flinch.

"You know my name."

"Yes."

"You have a way of accessing knowledge."

"Yes," Crowley admits again.

"Can you give me the information needed to blackmail him?"

"Francis Kanaram? Owner of growing fabric manufacture, Northborough Prints?"

"Yes, him." Kathleen looks eager. She steps forward, candle flame sputtering.

Crowley watches a bit of liquid wax go flying, curses for it land on the circle at a key spot to undo it, but it lands in the mug.

"What are you willing to give me, for that information?" For all the lack of sibilant sounds in that sentence, he still hisses it out. Pushes against his skin, try to make her realize that no matter what she's not coming out of this well. Oh, she could hurt Crowley, but Crowley would bite back harder and it would be much easier on them all if she dropped her plans now. "We already claimed your soul."

Kathleen nibbles her lip. "What do you want?"

There's very little Crowley wants, though top of the list is out of the summoning circle. Kathleen won't give him that though, not right away, not a clever woman like her. The other things Crowley wants he knows she can't give him; only one being could and he is far away from here.

That leaves what Hell wants. Hell wants souls, and Hell wants them fast. He could ask Kathleen for ten years of her life. Or have her tempt another for the flames. She's single, maybe take away her ability to conceive a child, though even as he thinks that Crowley knows he would never.

He takes too long to answer. Kathleen pulls something from her pocket, something small and shiny, and hurls it towards Crowley. Her aim is true. it smacks him in the face, and it _burns._ He refuses to scream, refuses to flinch, because he _knows_ humans like this. The humans who will do anything for power. Kathleen wants to blackmail and take down her boss. She's already spilled demon blood. Crowley doesn't want his to be next.

He bares his fangs at her, head turning into a snake, and she takes half a step backward. Satisfied, Crowley snaps back to the form described by the summoning and gets a good look at what she threw. A silver cross. By the burn on his check and the aura it gives off, it's either been blessed by a priest or dipped in holy water.

"Don't think of something outrageous, demon. I want a fair deal."

Crowley laughs. "You were willing to barter your soul for corporate power. Anything else on the table is less than that. And again, we already have that."

"You can make a deal, Crowley, or I will force you to give me information." From her pocket, Kathleen pulls out a dozen crosses on a string. They're of various sizes, but together they give off such a holy aura Crowley can feel his skin prickle.

"I can handle pain."

"So said the other demon, but he ended up giving me what I wanted anyway."

"Yeah? You still summoned me, looking for help."

She sneers at him. "He didn't have the power, but he gave me your name. And you're already proved you can get me what I want. Let's make a deal, demon Crowley."

Crowley doesn’t want to make a deal. Everything he thinks about taking are trifles in the world of Hell, but also, he doesn't trust Kathleen. Deals aren’t simply a bit of commerce – favor for soul or such. They are binding pacts. Kathleen would be forced to give up what Crowley demanded, but he would also be forced to do as she asked and he doesn’t trust her to come up with a fair pact. Oh, he could add his own stipulations of course, but he is already at her mercy – trapped and unable to hurt her. He doesn't want to give her any more ground.

He might not have a choice.

"Information that will ruin his reputation, for ten years off your life."

Kathleen puts the mug with the candle down by her feet. Then, she unstrings a cross from her collection. She flings it at Crowley, and again, it hits. His shirt protects him from a burn, and when it drops to the ground, he kicks the cross toward the circle’s edge. Sadly, it crashes against the barrier instead of landing on a line to disrupt the circle.

"Reputation ruining information alone won't get me his job."

"You sound like you have something in mind."

It's dark in this windowless room, the light coming one blub and five candles. With a candle at her feet, the light casts harsh shadows on Kathleen's face worthy of a Duke of Hell's dramatics. It makes him think of Hastur and Crowley shivers.

"I want there to be no dispute that once Francis is done, I'm the best leader for the company."

"Are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Are you?" Crowley repeats. He doesn't know why his mouth is running, he really doesn't, but he imagines Kathleen kicking over the candle mug, splattered wax disrupting the circle. It's too far, he knows that, but he still hopes for it. "Are you the best leader of the company?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." He grins, mouth too wide on his face. Let her think if she's a bad boss, if her reign will be to Hell's benefit, that Crowley will give her a good deal. Let her not think that Crowley worries about her future employees.

He's seen sweatshops. They remind him too much of Hell. None one should be subjected to that unless they deserved it.

"I'm a smarter businessman. I can expand the country beyond the Southern States."

Ah, a location. She doesn’t sound like a Southern Belle, but she could have come from the north to wherever here is.

She rotates her wrist and the crosses clang together. Crowley suspects that she's willing to toss them all at him until he presents a deal she wants. They'd burn on contact, but more than that, if they start littering the floor inside the circle he might run into problems. Too much concentration of holy energy could do any number of things. The joined aura might make him too weak to stand. Collectively, they might be strong enough to sanctify the ground.

He wonders if it had been the crosses to make the first demon bleed, or something else.

"Information to ruin his reputation and information for you to feed him and the other stakeholders prior to his fall to make you look like the smart choice. For fifteen years of your life."

Kathleen lobs another cross at him. It hits his thigh, and even though his pants he could feel the holy warmth. The thing is thrice blessed, probably. It is also the biggest she'd thrown yet. Brooch sized, instead of that of a necklace charm. The weight of it will bruise him.

"Ten years was a better price."

"Ten years was the price for one type of information. Giving you two for fifteen is a bargain," Crowley hisses.

She whips another cross at him. A fancy thing whose gemstones catch the candlelight, the only reason Crowley manages to dodge it. The crosses are too small for him to accurately track in the bad light, though he can tell when she throws something.

"Both types of information for fifteen," Crowley repeats, "And when I get out, I'll let you keep that hand."

Kathleen laughs. "You can't hurt me."

"As soon as I'm free, yes I can."

"No. I want it part of the deal."

"Whut? Blackmail info, business info, _and_ a do not harm clause?" She'd do well as a demon, Crowley thinks. Pity humans don't become any. Or maybe that is for the best.

"For three years."

Crowley laughs. Throws his head back in a great big guffaw that echoes in the empty space. He looks at Kathleen, arms crossed, and starts laughing again. It's the hard smack of metal on skin, the burn of holiness on his face, centimeters from his tattoo that has him stand up straight and glare at Kathleen.

"No deal," he snarls. "It's not fair."

"Devils don't make fair trades. Why should I?"

"Demons. And you should, if you want to run this business." The truth is, while Hell might not monitor the use of curses and temptations – they encourage greediness and overindulgences of all sorts after all – they do keep track of deals.

The ranks of hell might be decided by power, but clout is power and how many human souls you had a hand in harvesting. You got points by being the primary reason someone's soul ends up in Hell, and partial points for those you were only indirectly connected to. Crowley's temptation of Eve gave him a steady stream of partial points because without her and Adam's expulsion from the Garden, Earth would have no massive potential for sin. Dragging someone's soul down to hell directly by a deal, well, that was bonus points. Bringing them down sooner was well received too.

Which meant that if Crowley's deal with Kathleen was unbalanced in her favor, it'd be noticed. He'd face consequences for it – what demon got duped by a human? – socially and perhaps officially too. He likes most humans, tries to make fair deals or those that only slightly sling in his favor. But this offer?

Hell would hurt him worse than being pelted with blessed crosses.

"No deal. You want all three, it's twenty years. Or fifteen and your hand."

Crowley could hold out. Kathleen would run out of crosses, she'd leave, and he'd figure out how to escape.

"All three, and I let you live."

Crowley would have laughed again, except her tone is flat. Is that the deal she'd made with the other demon? Crowley's name, for the other demon's escape? Must not have been very powerful a demon if he bled at crosses.

Abandoning the candle at her feet, Kathleen circles the paint on the floor. Gently, she tosses four crosses into the summoning circle, each one at a cardinal point. That leaves one cross left on her string, easily three inches long. She throws it at Crowley and he catches it in his hand. He forces his face not to reflect any pain as he clenches the metal in his fist. He looks Kathleen in the eyes the entire time.

"I'm not like your first summon. Fifteen and your hand for your boss ruined and his company in your control. That's a fair deal."

"I'll need that hand to type with," she sniffs.

"I'll substitute it with your foot."

"No deal." Kathleen turns on her heels and walks up the dimly lit staircase.

Crowley doesn't call after. He knows how stubborn women can be, expects every question he shouts after her to be met with silence. Kathleen fades into the dark top of the staircase. Crowley doesn’t see the light from an opening door.

One by one, the candles burn out.

* * *

Crowley doesn't need light. He can see fairly well in the dark, except for one thing – letters. His eyes see movement and shapes, not sigils painted on the floor. The only reason he knows where the summoning circle edge is because if he tries to cross it, his face hits a solid barrier.

He kicks the crosses into two piles. They're trapped in the circle with him, the constant presence of holy items bothering him worse and worse. What used to be constant goosebumps has turned into a rolling sense of nausea. Absently, he wondered if Kathleen's first summon had been in a similar situation and vomited up blood.

He hopes that was the case. Because he doesn't want to imagine all the other things Kathleen might do.

He can't touch the paint to scratch the sigils to ineffectiveness. The candle wax didn't drip over the lines on the floor. Power didn't bleed from the summoning circle, nor did Crowley filling it with his own energy overwhelm it.

Things could enter the summoning circle, but not exit it. Not him, not the crosses, not even his shoe when he tossed it. That meant, to disrupt it, something would have to ruin the lines from outside. Kathleen would never do that. Not on purpose, anyway.

He sits on the ground, limbs pulled in tightly, and schemes.

* * *

He doesn't know how much later Kathleen comes back, only that he's slept twice for lengths he doesn't know. Two days, maybe three.

She’s not in business attire. She's in shorts and a t-shirt. Crowley guesses it's a Saturday.

"Have you rethought our deal?" She has a battery-operated camping light in her hand. It's bright after days of darkness, making Crowley squint.

"Yesssss," he hisses.

"And?"

"Blackmail, control, no-harm, _and_ two of my feathers."

Kathleen stills. "What use are feathers?"

She says a word under her breath and the magic of summoning circle nips at Crowley's soles. It's the light compulsion already in the magic that brought him here. Not enough to take away his free will and negate any deal they might make, but enough to make sure he tells the truth.

He shows his fangs. "They're very useful."

"For what?"

"Well, they hold power. They can be used in spells. Or as a short cut to summoning me again."

Her eyes sparkle, and Crowley knows he's got her attention.

"For three years?" she asks.

"Seven," Crowley counters. "You know as well as I do, three is too low. But I'll let you pick the feathers."

He brings forth his wings. He's not sure how much Kathleen can see with the limited light, but he can feel them press and curve along the barrier. It's cramped in here, he can feel the power of the crosses on his wings like the heat from a bonfire, but he doesn't let her know.

An image of power went a long way, he'd learned.

She lifts the light higher, steps closer, and Crowley does his best to keep a grin off his face. He shifts his wing, fanning out the feathers. "Which two would you like? Go ahead and take them."

It's a trap, but all Kathleen hears is a slip-up. A chance to grab to demon feathers for free. She marches up to the outer edge of the summoning circle and stretches out her hand. The circle is so thin she only has to reach half her arm span before Crowley feels her fingers wrap around a feather.

She yanks. Crowley hides a wince. She pockets the feather, wraps her dainty little fingers around a second, but before she can pull it free Crowley _moves._

He may look human, may be currently forced into his human form, but he's not. Not truly.

Crowley pivots and snags Kathleen's wrist. It's inside the summoning circle, even as her feet are outside it and her arm above it. He pushes her forearm down and away from her body. Kathleen follows the movement as it puts strain on her shoulder. Falls down, right on the painted symbols of the summoning circle.

Suddenly all connected, the sigils don't work. The barrier drops. Crowley takes a large step over the paint with first his left foot, then his right, Kathleen's wrist still in his hand even as her body is below his on the ground, face screwed up in pain.

He won't actually take her hand, but he will break something. His fist tightens. He feels her bones rub together.

"I understand," he whispers to her as she stares at him, fear in her face. "You have your own wishes and desires. You won't be subjugated. But I can see you as clearly and I can see Francis Kanaram. You both want power to better yourselves and lord it over others."

With his free hand, Crowley brushes fingers over Kathleen's brow, pushing back a lock of hair. "You lust for power, covet your bosses own, and have the greed to take more. Hell will love you, when they finally have you."

They don't have a deal, but Crowley takes what he wants anyway. Ten years of her life. He breaks three of her fingers too, and steals her memories of demons and summons.

Maybe it would be a mercy to kill her. As it is, she'll wake up in this dark basement, uncertain as to how she got there, blank spaces in her mind, trembling from a nightmare. She'll wonder for years, _what happened._ Crowley wonders if she'll have manic periods trying to understand, or develop nervous tics the obsessively remember everything.

He's never been able to kill humans, no matter how bad they are. Sometimes he wonders if that's a call back to whom he was before pride got in the way. Most likely, it's just him and his personal desire to do minimal harm.

Kathleen will wake up, disturbed maybe but mostly unharmed. Crowley managed a wonderful deal.

With a snap, he makes the painted sigils disappear, as well as the bloodstains from the first summoning. Then, he imagines himself someplace else. Somewhere in England, and then Soho, seeking the comfort of company that wasn't about deals. Where keeping score had fallen away, and where he could forget about the burn of blessed crosses on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love comments, and I love [Tumblr](uniasus.tumblr.com) friends. I'm over there as Uniasus as well. Say hi either way!


End file.
